


Rough Edges

by kirallea



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Healing, No Dialogue, Post-Canon, Quiet, Sharing a Bed, soft, soft smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:13:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25382905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirallea/pseuds/kirallea
Summary: Claws, and all the things you can do with them.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 157





	Rough Edges

What’s a cat without her claws? A hunter without a weapon, a warrior stripped from her armor. They are her pride, a gift from her ancestors -- the ears and the tail, too, everything that makes her her. In a world where everything is a threat, claws are essential for survival, tools of attack and defense. How many times has she raised her hand in battle? Nine doesn’t even begin to cover it.

But there is no war anymore, and what’s in the past stays in the past. Maybe, just maybe, she can finally let her guard down.

It’s the height of summer, the nights unbearably warm and bright, the purple-blue sky ablaze with moons and stars. They shower together and drip water all over the bathroom floor, the tiles slippery and treacherous. There’s no need for a towel. The heat will dry them off, just like yesterday, and the day before that.

(It’s become part of the routine, Catra’s half-hearted hiss when Adora turns on the shower, the flat-against-the-head ears, the sullen expression. But she doesn’t mind as much as she pretends to. She likes teasing a smile out of Adora, likes the tenderness in her eyes, likes the way their bodies fit together, even here, even now.)

From the bedroom window, they have a clear view of the sky, the clouds so close Catra can almost, almost touch them. The bed sits directly under the window, and they spend their nights lying diagonally across the mattress, pointing out moons and stars to each other, whispering about -- whatever. Sometimes, they don’t sleep until the early hours of morning, legs touching under the covers, the curtains still open.

(It’s okay. They have all the time in the world.)

Tonight, there is a trail of wet footprints from the bathroom door to the bed. The sheets and pillows are soaked with water, and the moisture feels cool on Catra’s skin, like a permanent breeze. She’s on her back, and Adora lies halfway on top of her, their bodies snug against each other, a soft tangle of limbs. Catra has wrapped her tail around Adora’s ankle, and Adora has buried her face against Catra’s neck, her arm draped around her waist. And Catra? She can think of worse ways to be trapped.

She lifts a hand and trails the claw of her index finger over Adora’s shoulder, down her back. It’s a gentle touch, feather-light, closer to a tickle than a scratch. She looks down at the thin white line she has drawn on Adora’s skin, barely visible in the low light. Adora smells like her shampoo, like honey and something warm and earthy; Catra wants to lick it off her skin, wants to put her mouth where she just touched her, wants to kiss her way down that line.

(Sometimes, it’s easier to touch than to talk.)

Adora props herself up on her elbows and looks down at her. Her hair is still a little damp, cascading on either side of her face, shielding them from the outside world. Catra cups Adora’s head between her hands, touches the tips of their noses together. She wouldn’t mind hiding for the rest of her life.

(She has hurt her before, hasn’t she? A scratch to the face, a scrape of claws against Adora’s skin. There are no scars on Adora’s cheek anymore, no signs of the cruelty inflicted on her all those years ago. Catra lets out a breath. She doesn’t know how she could have lived with herself if -- if.)

She is careful now, stroking Adora’s cheeks with the pads of her thumbs, claws retracted. Back and forth, back and forth, the slightest touch of skin on skin. She is usually not this gentle. But she is learning, experimenting, changing. 

Adora’s breath brushes against Catra’s lips, coaxing them open, and then she’s leaning down to catch Catra’s mouth with her own, pinning her against the mattress. A kiss on the lips, on the edge of Catra’s jaw, on the curve of her neck. Adora is working her way down, and it’s clear to Catra where this is going. Her heart is starting to pound in her chest, blood rushing in her ears. 

The ends of Adora’s hair tickle Catra’s stomach. Catra’s mouth is uncomfortably dry. She is acutely aware of where her body begins and ends. Claws, the tips of her ears, the rough edges of her body, every part of her attuned to every part of Adora. 

Catra’s eyes are closed now, breath stuck in her throat, the muscles in her stomach taut and quivering. A spark of anticipation, a steady pulse of _want want want._ There’s the brush of Adora’s breath against her stomach, the press of her fingers against her inner thigh, and a soft rustle of sheets, and then--

\--and then Catra makes a small, helpless sound, halfway between a hiss and a whimper, her hips twitching and lifting off the mattress.

She needs to do something with her hands. They find Adora’s head, fingers sinking into her hair, rubbing her scalp. No claws, no scratching. Careful, careful, careful.

(Sometimes, she gets rough, without even meaning to. She can’t help it. It happens when she’s lost in a haze of pleasure, every nerve alight with need, mind screaming _more more more._ That’s when her hands start to move on their own, sliding around Adora’s back, claws biting into her skin. Adora never complains. Maybe she likes it. Maybe Catra is not as rough as she thinks. Either way, she feels a little bad about it.)

The first twenty years of her life, an endless cycle of discipline and duty. Strict daily schedules, rationed meals, punishments for disobedience and mischief. Comfort was a limited commodity, reserved for nights spent in Adora’s bed. How do you even begin to explain pleasure to someone like her younger self?

She thought she knew her body and what it was capable of. (All those years of physical training; all those years of burning lungs and aching feet and sore muscles.) But she had no idea her body would be capable of experiencing so much pleasure. It flows through her veins, tingles at the tips of her fingers, spills from her lips. A magic of her own, a gateway to a new world. 

There’s a tingly electric feeling in the bottom of her stomach now, pulsing through her body. Her hands clench into fists around Adora’s hair, claws cutting into her own palms. It hurts a little, but it’s a good kind of pain, an additional rush of adrenaline through her veins. 

She knows her body now, knows it so well she can count down the seconds in her head. Five four three two one, and she’s tipping her head back, her whole body shuddering, and then the world is reduced to nothing but pleasure, hot and overwhelming and all-consuming, every muscle tense tense tense-- 

\--and then she sinks down into the mattress, loose-limbed and pliant, chest heaving, back prickling with sweat. 

Adora’s fingers draw soothing circles on the inside of her thigh. She sits up and slides on top of Catra, her body a warm, comforting weight, like a heavy blanket. Catra closes her eyes with a sigh. She thinks she’s going to purr. 

A moment of stillness, and her hands are starting to wander again, fingertips following the curve of Adora’s spine, sliding down to her sides. Adora is not the most ticklish person, but there is a spot near the bottom of her ribs that always makes her squirm, no matter what. Catra flicks a claw against it, and Adora jerks in surprise, shoulders shaking in silent laughter. Her mouth is wet against Catra’s neck, breath hot and a little sticky. 

(Catra wants to kiss her. Three months later, and part of her is still yearning. Only this time, she can just turn her head and do it. She doesn’t, not now -- later, later, later.) 

The silence stretches on, too precious to be broken. Catra is drawing on Adora’s skin again, tracing her outline. Mapping out her body, all the things that make her her. Out of the corner of her eye, Catra catches a glimpse of the night sky, then the tail of a shooting star, ephemeral but beautiful. 

Five years ago, she would have made a wish. Now, she is not sure what she would wish for. 

Adora is starting to fall asleep, her breathing deep and even. Catra tucks a wisp of hair behind Adora’s ear, brushes her finger against her earlobe. Claws retracted now, no rough edges. 

The night hums around them, brimming with magic and peace.


End file.
